My Name Is Moran
by Firebird'sDaughter
Summary: Dealing with grief has never been easy for Colonel Sebastian Moran-and right now, it's impossible. So what does Moriarty's former right-hand do when a suspiciously well-dressed man shows up at his apartment with a package he didn't order? (One-shot. I realise the name doesn't exactly fit; perhaps it's a statement about the opinion inside. Anyway, that's the basic premise! Enjoy!)


**_So, in honour of the newest SHERLOCK season coming out, I decided I would finally write this fic. This is what I think happened to Sebastian after Jim went and shot himself in the head. Now, just in case anyone decides to (SPOILERS) go off about how 'Nooo, Moran isn't a guy, Mary is Moran!' please know that my response to that theory is 'Please, for the love of all that even MIGHT be holy, NO.' I have nothing against Mary being Badass and clever and awesome, but the way I see it, combining her and Sebastian would only serve to destroy two characters brimming with wonderful potential. Mary was already awesome as she was, as the only 'normal' thing in John's life, as someone who was entirely willing to accept his friendship with Sherlock and calm and practical enough to deal with their way of life. I don't think all the women in this series need to lead back to Moriarty, or need to be some sort of criminal (thank you, Molly and Mrs. Hudson, for not being either one or both of those). She can know him, hell, she can even be RELATED to him. Just not BE him. Now, Moran, in my eyes, has the potential to complete the dark mirror of Sherlock that Moriarty is. The way I see it, Moran is to Moriarty what John is to Sherlock (well, with a few variations, of course…). They are BOTH the 'evil counterparts' of our favourite duo. Making him into Mary destroys that. I WANT that parallel. Though I don't entirely like the way they did Adler, expanding her and not Moran would disappoint me._**

**_Now, that's my opinion. Maybe this isn't as big a deal as I think it is. Anyone who vehemently disagrees can either not read this or simply find it in their heart to ignore that. But don't hate on my work. Genuine critics of my writing are fine, but don't flame me. I might get violent._**

**_And, if you agree with me, awesome! I've been unable to find anyone who actually says that they do, and a few people who say they want the opposite. Either way, here I go._**

**_I, unfortunately, do not own this version of Sherlock Holmes and any characters therefore attached._**

**_I promise, I'm actually working on updating my other SHERLOCK works as well. Please bear with me and my inability to organise._**

* * *

><p>There was something wrong.<p>

Actually, that was an understatement. 'Wrong' implied that whatever it was could be fixed, but that wasn't the feeling he had. Years in the army had left him highly alert to danger, and right then, he felt a creeping horror running through his veins that usually signalled that he was walking into some sort of inevitable trap. That should have been impossible, however. The safe house location was one of the things that Jim had always obsessed over. He'd joked that Jim didn't trust him, but had never gained any sort of reaction for it.

Jim. That was it. Where was his employer? Normally, he'd be able to hear the tap of the man's dress shoes on the wooden floors, or that tune he always hummed whenever he thought it was too quiet. At the very least, he should have been able to smell the weird cologne (well, he thought it was weird, but Jim always said that was because he was uncivilised) that the small man insisted on wearing. Instinctively, he reached for the handgun he normally kept tucking into the back of his trousers, only to discover it wasn't there. Impossible.

A sound made him look toward the front room, the one that contained the armchairs Jim had arranged himself while his bodyguard stood with arms folded and commented about how big a waste of leather it was.

"Jim?" He called gently. Sometimes, the guy would get in moods where approaching him was dangerous, even for someone who outweighed him as much as he did. "Is that you?" He moved silently towards the door way, every sense peeled for some sort of attack or sign of trouble. When he reach the door, however, there was nothing unusual. A second look at the room revealed a figure upright in one of the chairs, its back to him. He relaxed a little. He'd have to be blind not to recognise the hair gel he'd been forced to go buy numerous times. "Damnit, Jim. You scared me." Not that that was unusual. He was pretty sure Jim enjoyed it. But the feeling of dread would not go away. Why was Jim here, anyway? He couldn't quite place it, but for some reason, he was certain his employer was **not** supposed to be here, sitting still in a chair. He moved forward again. "Jim… What are doing here? Weren't you…?" He trailed of, because, for the life of him, he couldn't remember where Jim was supposed to **be**. Finally gaining enough courage, which was probably **more** courage than a man nearly two hundred centimetres tall normally needed to address a man nearly two heads shorter, he reached over and touched his shoulder.

Jim Moriarty fell forward out of the chair, a bullet hole in the back of his head.

Sebastian Moran sat up sharply in bed, rubbing his temples. His nightmares had been becoming more and more consistent—it was the second time he'd awoken in a cold sweat that week, and the hangover wasn't helping. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled, holding his head tightly in his hands and taking deep breaths until he calmed down. Once he was sure his heartbeat had returned to normal, he risked a glance at the other side of the bed. The tiny blond he'd met up with last night was still asleep, undisturbed by his antics. He sat back against his headboard sighing inwardly. He was pretty sure he could claim the dubious honour of taking home a different girl every night for the past two years. Not that he was proud of that or anything. It was just that the sex was the only thing that came close to filling the gap that had been left in his life since that day two years before. He wasn't sure when the last time he had come home alone was. To be honest, he didn't even know when the last time he was **sober** was. He hadn't gone back to drugs yet, but he knew it was only a matter of time. At least, unless you nitpicked about alcohol being a drug.

Still careful not to disturb the sleeping woman, he climbed out of bed and began hunting for his clothes. He dressed with a quick, practiced ease that had been drilled into him in the army—if there was a raid, you didn't want to be caught up with buttons and zippers. Before pulling on his leather jacket on, he made certain to retrieve the handgun from where he'd hidden it in his dresser, and slip it into the back of his waistband where he could reach it easily before slipping out of the bedroom to the kitchen. Even with Jim gone and most of the empire dismantled, he still couldn't break the habit; besides, if anything, he was a creature of habit.

Jim had scolded him for that occasionally, at the beginning of their time together, but had quickly discovered that Sebastian's habits made him reliable and trustworthy. At least, trustworthy enough for a criminal mastermind. After a while, the two had settled into a rapport, and Jim's scolding had turned into something else. Not praise, exactly—the nicest thing Jim had ever said to him was that Sebastian was the only thing he had ever committed to.

The only thing he ever committed to. The **weirdest** thing he ever committed to. Saving a broken soldier from addiction and suicide. A man who had watched one too many good friends die, and turned to drugs to cope.

Ironically, the things that had brought them together had been similar to the things that had brought the other two together; a newly returned Afghan veteran who had seen one too many dead bodies and a genius who hadn't seen enough.

Not that Sebastian could entirely claim to be a victim. His military file was one of those with a black mark on it that read 'Dishonourably Discharged.' According to the reports, he'd suffered a psychotic break, shot down ten unarmed civilians, two other soldiers, and then tried to shoot himself. The last bit hadn't exactly worked out the way it was supposed to. There'd been a court martial, and a great deal of drama. His popularity with the media for being exceedingly tall, good looking, and an expert marksman, had made his case volatile. In the end, they had quietly discharged him rather than have the entire mess go public. So, Sebastian had dropped of the record, and into what Jim had always referred to as 'depravity.'

His talent for sharpshooting was what had drawn Jim to him originally. Indeed, the small, sharply dressed man had made no secret of that fact that his wading personally into London's underground was not a case of pity, but of personal gain.

_You're the best sniper in Europe. If there were someone else, that's where I'd be._

Sebastian himself couldn't claim that he'd agreed to the job for anything more than the same thing. It had been a lot of money, and while had been a drunk and a druggie, he hadn't exactly been stupid, despite the fact that Jim always told him he was.

But their attachment to each other had been something neither of them were expecting. They hadn't even really noticed it, to begin with. After a while Jim had stopped offering specific bonuses for more grisly jobs, and Sebastian had stopped checking. It became no secret that anyone who tried to take advantage of Moriarty's physical ineptitude got his gigantic assassin to deal with; a few people also learned that it went vice-versa, too, but few of them lived to tell the tale. Once, a not-so-lucky perp had managed to land a shot in Sebastian's shoulder. That was perhaps the one time he had **ever** seen Jim anywhere **close** to truly angry, and also on of the few times Moriarty had picked up a gun himself—the instant Jim spoke, it was clear that a line had been crossed. Sebastian was the only one to hear that tone and live; more tan once, even.

_No one hurts my pet but me_.

Pet. That was one of the names Jim had taken to calling him. That or 'Seb,' 'Sebby,' and even 'Tiger;' Sebastian didn't mind—it allowed them to pull off some very entertaining confrontations when people thought that Jim Moriarty's pet tiger was an actual cat. In fact, he'd've gone so far as to say he enjoyed it. Things had been going well, until…

Until Sherlock Holmes. Until that day on the roof on Saint Bartholomew's.

Sebastian didn't understand why Holmes had monopolised Jim's attention. He didn't understand why that bothered him so much.

And most of all he didn't understand why Jim had had to shoot himself.

_Of course not. You never could keep up with my mind._

"Shut up!"

"Shut up?" Chirped a high-pitched voice behind him. He turned around to find the blonde standing there, staring at him with a pair of large, blue eyes.

"Not you." He growled dismissively.

_Now, now, Tiger; don't be testy_.

He snarled again, rubbing his forehead, but doing his best to focus on the scantily clad woman. "Sorry." He swallowed. "You… You want breakfast?" She smiled at him.

"You cook?" Had her voice been this annoyingly high-pitched last night?

"Uh… Yeah. I used to cook a lot for the, uh, guy I worked for." She giggled shrilly.

"**Wow**! That is **so** cute! You were a butler?" Sebastian bit his lip.

"Er… Yeah, let's go with that." He muttered, turning away from her.

_Ugh. She's _stupid_, Sebby. Kill her_.

"Will you be **quiet**!"

"What?"

"Nothing." He sighed, already trying to think of a way to get rid of her. Despite what the voice in his head was suggesting, murder was probably **not** his best course of action. That would attract attention—though the likelihood of anyone missing this woman any time soon was small, Jim had always said you couldn't be too sure with Sherlock Holmes.

_Aaaw, so you were listening to me, Tiger. That's sweet._

Shaking his head to clear it, Sebastian went to work in the kitchen. In the other room of his apartment (he hadn't been able to handle living in the safe-house with Jim gone), the girl had discovered the television. Sebastian winced. He had sharp senses, and couldn't **stand** telly. The only reason he kept it around was because… Because Jim had liked it. To him, there was always some sort of high pitched whine playing over all the dialogue—sort of like the blonde's voice. Why couldn't he remember her name?

_Because she's a _girl_, pet. Girls don't suit you!_

"Be **quiet**!" There was a loud crash as the dish he had been holding hit the ground and fractured when he moved his hands to clutch his head, gritting his teeth. "Get out of my **head**!" More smashing, and there was splintered wood everywhere. It seemed he'd punched the cupboard in anger. Damn. That's be a large repair bill. Again.

_Oh, c'mon. You don't actually want me gone, do you? Because if I'm not here, that means I'm really dead, right?_

"I don't **care**!" Another bang and sharp pain shooting up his leg informed him he'd just kicked the counter, hard. He tried to remain standing, but finally sank to the kitchen floor, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face in them, shaking, his face wet. He didn't hear the door open and close. Slowly, after sitting curled on the cold tiled floor for a while, he began to return to himself, becoming aware of a throbbing in his hand and foot. He dragged himself up, examining the damage. He'd wrecked his hand pretty badly, but he was fairly certain his foot was merely sprained. He hobbled into the other room, and a cursory glance showed him that his audible break down had gotten rid of the unwanted date for him. The television was still on, so he found the remote and shut it off. He was in the bathroom going through the medicine cabinet when there was a knock. He groaned loudly, but moved slowly back out to the door, yanking it open. "**Yes**?" The prim, elderly gentleman on the other side merely raised and eyebrow at his dishevelled appearance, nursing one hand, red eyed, and favouring his right foot.

"I was told, sir, to deliver this package to this address." He held out the parcel to Sebastian, who took it reluctantly, grunted in thanks, and closed the door in his face. The dragged himself back over to the sofa, collapsing onto it. He examined the envelope briefly, until he came to the conclusion that, if it **was** a bomb, he really didn't **care**. Flipping it over, her tore it open. Inside was a single, silver disc marked 'WATCH ME' in bold, neat lettering. Sebastian scowled at the idea of having to turn the telly on again, but finally reluctantly put the dic into it's place in the player and pressed the necessary button, crawling back over to the sofa as it began. A woman appeared on the screen, young, with dark hair done up in a ponytail so tight that it had to hurt. She was dressed with more care a prestige than any of the women he had been spending time with recently, and there was not a speck of dust on her. She sat bolt upright, legs crossed, hands folded, and cold black eyes staring right out of the television with an air of militarism that was confirmed by a pin on her lapel. Something about the icy, calculating gaze was disturbingly familiar.

"Good day, Colonel Moran. Yes, I know who you are. You and I have a few things in common; we're both Colonels, we've both lost something very important to us, and…" She levelled her gaze at him, as if she could see him through the screen. "According to the government, **neither of us exist**." His eyebrows creased. He didn't exist in the manner that they had no idea of his part in Moriarty's schemes—but if this women had been involved with those, he would certainly have met her. "I imagine you must be very confused, Colonel. Not to worry. I will explain everything personally when we meet—which we **will** be doing, may I add. The man who delivered this video to you is waiting outside in a car; he will bring you to where I am. All you need to do is tell him that you've agreed to speak with me by name." Sebastian rolled his eyes, lurching to his feet. Numerous other crime lords had tried to make ago at his skills over the past two years—the smart one shad eventually backed off; the stupid ones had ended up dead. He wasn't about to change that pattern now for some girl. He started back toward the kitchen. "I have no doubt that you shall do as I ask, Colonel. Because, you see…

My name is Jane Moriarty."

He was out the door before the tape cut to black.


End file.
